


White Roses

by misszeldasayre



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Marvel Universe, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-02-04 00:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misszeldasayre/pseuds/misszeldasayre
Summary: When Karen calls, the Punisher comes. Even if it takes him a while to notice the vase in the window and even longer to muster up the courage to see her again. Takes place after Season 1, Episode 4.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during The Punisher Season 1, between Episodes 4 and 5.

A vase of white roses in the window. Petals catching on the shutters as they fall. A waterline shrinking as flowers slurp greedily at their second chance in the sun, then fade away, neglected.

When he comes, she's almost forgotten that she set the vase where he could see it. Almost.

"You said you'd come." Her voice rakes along his back and digs fingernails into his old chest wound. Accusatory.

"I'm here." A grunt, too low to make out unless she leans in. She's leaning in anyway, unconsciously. Frank does not move as she sways within reach. He keeps his gaze fixated on the flowers. "What do you have for me?"

" _Have_  for you? There's been a trail of bodies spanning across New York, it's only growing." Her voice grows quieter the more intense she becomes. "I need—wanted to know if you were safe."

A whisper of a chuckle rasps in his throat. If there's a trail of bodies, who does she think is creating it? Karen must suspect as much; the defiant slouch of her shoulders and upturned nose dares him to deny it. He can't. His job is to punish people. And he's very thorough at his job.

"That stolen shipment of guns. Did you have anything to do with that?"

He shifts his eyes from the clay vase, and the cityscape stretching out beyond it, to the woman perched on the edge of her couch. "You heard about that?"

She sighs, her frustration bottled up in her white knuckles and wild eyes. "I'm a reporter, Frank. It's my job to hear about it."

He snorts, the shadow of smile setting up shop across his face. It lingers, and he watches Karen warm to that. She stands, nervously brushing back the golden strands falling in her eyes. "Would you like a beer?"

He nods, swallowing at the prospect of something to drink. Not at how her hips sway in that tight pencil skirt as she strides towards the fridge. Not at how she bends to collect two bottles, pausing to read the labels before setting them on the kitchenette counter. Definitely not at the way she purses her mouth as she pops each cap off. Karen doesn't need his help, and Frank has to admire that.

When her fingers brush his as she hands him a beer, Frank swallows again.

A sip. Then silence. He doesn't know what to say, so he waits for her to speak. She's talkative enough. He's content to listen.

"You cut your hair."

When he stares at the pink of her cheeks too long, his head starts to spin. A fucking merry-go-round.

"I worry about you."

"I know." What else is there to say? Karen will always worry, and Frank will always be at a loss for words.

She fidgets, crossing her arms and then uncrossing them. Shifting from side to side. Chewing at the corner of her cheek. "Will you come back?"

Frank staves off the urge to bolt by draining the rest of his beer. It's not like she's asking him for his breakfast order (three eggs, bacon, sourdough toast, and coffee). Or for his loyalty (she already commands it). She's simply asking if he'll look for the roses, come when she calls. But Frank's scared he'll lose her if he makes a promise he can't keep.

And then she leans in to brush his mouth, so whisper-soft that Frank's sure he dreamed it. The same way he dreams of Lisa helping him with his car, of Frankie laughing on the merry-go-round. Of Maria waking him with a—

Kiss. It's like he's stepped in cement himself, the way he's rooted to the linoleum. Karen's still there, a word between his lips and hers.

He can't. Not now. Not ever.

But he can't move away. He's trapped between memory and breath, responsibility and fantasy. The white of her sweater, the roses, her teeth— he can't help but see flashes of children's laughter and the white froth of the Hudson River seething in the ferry's wake. Karen's golden hair glints in the lamplight, but all he sees is the park bathed in sunlight, the chipped yellow paint on the wooden horses.

Frank hates himself for it: for the way his brain reminds him of loss every minute of every week. It interrupts his sleep, insistent in destroying any whiff of peace it catches in the dawn of a new day. When he thinks he's past his pain, his mind delivers the crippling blow and Frank's curled up in his bed again, spattered in Maria's blood. No matter how much he lifts, how long he plays, the carousel keeps churning, its only passenger a man with a gun and a guitar.

He can't hop off. But he can pull her on.

So he wraps one hand around her jaw and pulls her in. She kisses him, first rough and sloppy, then hesitantly, mimicking his glacial pace. It's something soft, tentative, a rose that Frank's not quite sure whether it's budding or wilting in the heat of their twin heartbeats.

She tastes like summer and home, and Frank can't help but lick the bitterness from her lips. Hands on waist, arms around neck. A fervor that he can't place wells up in his throat as he slopes over her. She pulls away, breathless, leaning her head against his chest.

The ride is over; the carousel slows to a stop. The cramped kitchen comes into focus; at the window, the roses stand vigil. Karen extends her hand. When he makes no move to take it, she grabs hold of his arm and tugs him towards the sofa? The door? Her bed? Frank doesn't know, but every fiber of his being yearns to find out.

But he knows if he gets off the merry-go-round now, he may never be able to hop back on. And it's all that he's got left of his family. So he shoves both hands in his overcoat pockets. Pulling up the hood, he stares Karen down. He's not one to look away from the kill.

It's killing her, his departure, written all over her face. Frank nods, acknowledging her pain. Thanking her for that moment. Then he turns and ambles out the door, letting it swing shut behind him.

He shuffles down the narrow stairs of her apartment complex, listening intently for the sound of an opening door, frantic footsteps behind him. All he hears is the hum of the lights above. The stairs curve, a series of switchbacks, but his head stays clear on his descent. As he steps into the starlight, he glances back up at the building, searching for a glimpse of white.

The vase is no longer there. As he scans the windows for something no longer there, his mind grows dim. The lights on the merry-go-round have burnt out.

Now that he's drowning in the softness of Karen's hips, her sickly-sweet rose scent and blue-fire eyes, Frank's finally free.


	2. A Night Full of Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bleeding out in the woods, Frank longs for the one person he can't have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Episode 5.

Twin bridges stare down Frank, mirrored in Karen's glistening eyes. He can't read her face, only sees her tongue dart out, her lips twist. New York spreads out behind them, and all he can see is the doubt taking root before him.

"They were better off without me, Karen," he growls. "And me being with them… me being by their side, it got them killed. I need to find— I need to find these bastards that took 'em from me, Karen. I gotta kill them."

She doesn't understand. One hand over her mouth, holding in a sniffle, she walks by him. He turns to find her looking out at the bridge over the water. How funny the way that hunk of metal stands over the Hudson. He wonders if the bridge ever tires of holding up the weight of a thousand New Yorkers. Does it ever wish to break from its foundations and sink into the depths of the river?

Karens looks at him, really looks at him. "So where does that end, Frank? Because I look at you and"— here she chokes— "my heart breaks because all I can see is just this endless, echoing loneliness." She spits the last word, and Frank only feels rage.

"I'm not lonely, Karen."

"Bullshit. We are all lonely." She sparkles against the reflection of the bridge. "I sometimes think that that is all that life is, we're just… we're just fighting not to be alone."

"So what do you want? What should I do? Should I let it go?"  _What can I do to make things right and make you happy?_

When he shouts, she turns away, folding in on herself. Frank doesn't know where he's gone wrong, why she won't answer him. "Now, look. I-I can't go after these men and keep you safe. I can't—"

"You don't have to keep—"

"What do you mean I don't have to keep you safe? My family's gone 'cause of what I know. They're gone!" It's like she's been slapped. The fight leaks out of her. He needs her to know, needs her to feel his pain. She does in this moment, yet he's never felt more alone.

He shakes his head, trying to keep the tremor from extending to his voice. "Karen, I…" She won't look at him. He tries to catch her gaze. "Hey." Gentler now. "I cannot let that happen to you, you got that?"  _You understand what I'm saying? I can't lose you, too._  She won't look up, so he leans in, forcing her to see. "I cannot let that happen. Please." A plea, a prayer to a golden goddess made of stone.

There's nothing left to do, but he can't walk away. So he leans in, kissing her cheek, light and fragile and all things goodbye. He examines her face— she flinches, her eyes still on his shoes— and bites down his tongue as he walks away into the dark.

* * *

Now he's in the woods, an arrow protruding from his shoulder and Gunnar bleeding out by his side. His comrade's face is green streaked with brown and black and red. The paint's rubbing off in the blood spilling from his mouth. Frank tries to staunch his friend's wound, but the pain from his own injuries overwhelms him. It's all he can do to prop himself up against the log beside his friend.

Somewhere, wolves howl. Near or far, Frank can't tell. He can't think straight, not with Gunnar's eyes darting back and forth, uneasy. Perhaps he sees the doubt stitched into Frank's brows. The look of a man who knows his friend won't make it through the night. "Bury me, man," the bearded man splutters.

No, no, no. This isn't how it goes. Gunnar's at home, not on the battlefield. It's not supposed to go like this, two soldiers shot down by their own. Frank shifts, and the wound in his side shrieks.

"I'll get help," he promises. Lieberman's gotta be out here looking for them. Frank's gotta be the bridge between the safety of the van and their tenuous position in the open, in the frost. God knows Lieberman won't find them first— the man's helpless away from a computer. "Just stay here. I'll be back."

Stumbling as he stands, ignoring the gurgles behind him, the ex-Marine limps in the direction he estimates the van to be parked. Slow going, this trek. He can't pick up his feet the way he used to. Branches reach for his arms, logs plant themselves in his feet's path. He trips; his knees weep. Frustration wells up under Frank's skin, but he can't give into the urge to scream now. Not when he doesn't know what's out there.

Propping himself up on a birch, he pauses to rest, each breath another arrow in his side. Can't see more than forty feet ahead. Looking up, he notes there's no moon to guide his trek, only bare boughs lacing the sky like a spider's web. If this maze of trees is a web, that makes Frank the fly. He'd shiver, if he could, but he's past shivering. The chill has settled into his body, slowing his movements. But he must keep moving if he's going to survive. If he's going to save Gunnar.

When he pulls his hands away from the tree, they feel sticky. He's been in enough wars to know it's not sap wetting his palms. He needs help, and fast.

Where is that asshole Lieberman?

A few more paces, and Frank's clutching the trunk of a tree the way he clings to a book after a nightmare. His numb hands are ice, each joint of each finger catching at the hinge. They can't cling to the bark, these soaked-cotton hands. When he collapses to the ground, his blood paints the barren tree alive.

Leaves— so cold they feel damp— cushion his fall. He writhes, trying to find the momentum to stand, but such strength is beyond him.

The wolves howl.

Gunnar's words float on their cries: "I always figured I'd die in these woods anyway." Well, he may have made his peace, but Frank isn't planning on dying here. He has men to kill. Karen to see. Yet the longer he lays here, the more he loses the will to move. This is it.

"Shit!" he hollers. A swallow chirps in reply. "Shit!"

But there's no reply. Lieberman doesn't come running. Gunnar's probably…

No. Gunnar can't die on him. Because Frank can't bury him.

He's miles away from Gunnar, yet the veteran's suddenly laying next to him, tugging at Frank's jacket. "Promise me you'll bury me, okay?" He wheezes past the blood, slurring in his flood of his own life.

"I'll be back," Frank croaks, but the figure of his friend by his side vaporizes when his breath clouds the air. "I'll be back, Gunnar." But Gunnar's no longer there.

It's just Frank and the woods. The unforgiving woods.

He blinks, and the dark forest is replaced by a brightly-lit family room. He looks to the left: Maria scolding little Frankie. He looks to the right. A giant drawing of a Marine spans half of the beige wall next to the sofa, painted with greens and browns and a big old grin. It's pretty good, Frank has to admit, but the scowl spreading across his wife's face urges him to action.

He wants to gather both of them in a hug, but his limbs don't respond. Instead one of his hands, of its own accord, grips his son and drags him out the door and onto the lawn. "What the hell were you thinking?" he shouts, shoving a finger in Frankie's face.

His son looks up at him, all defiance and swagger. "Marines scare off bad guys, Daddy. When you're not here, it's  _my_  job to protect our girls."

Frank staggers back, blinks, and he's the one on the ground again, not on the lawn but sprawled on a pile of leaves and twigs that poke into his back. Some protector he is.

_So what do you want? What should I do? Should I let it go?_

He's letting go.

A mouthful of blood. Staining his chin, his teeth, his vision. Karen's in his ears now: "I want there to be an after. For you." Judging by his blurring eyes and leaking wound, there won't be an after. But if there was… what would it be?

Images flash into his delirious mind, too quick for him to catch each individual moment: pink cheeks, a pile of petals, the twinkle in Karen's eyes drowning out the lights of the bridge. Her cramped apartment with green cabinets and a bed for two. Karen in his arms, and the arrow Gunnar gave him just a purple signature across his shoulder. Laughter. Kisses. A quiet head.

The fantasy vanishes, their warmth fading rapidly. There is no after, there's only now.

It's dark. It's cold. He's alone.

Eyes wide open, chest splitting from the arrowhead, and suddenly all he can think about is this book he borrowed from Curtis. Some National Park ranger writing about the importance of the wilderness. Ramble into the forest, he wrote, and contemplate the stillness of it all. The man never spent a goddamn night of his life in the woods, Frank decides, listening to the rustling around him. The birdsongs and patter of rodent feet, the swish of deers meeting branches and the last leaves of the season trickling to the earth— Frank hears it all and yet it fades away as he blinks.

The naked branches above his head are replaced by a flickering lamp, sweaty sheets and a double bed with one pillow. A stack of books on the nightstand. An alarm clock that never wakes him because his nightmares rouse him first. His ears ring from the stillness of it all. The endless, echoing loneliness.

Even his brain, master of deception and illusions, cannot save Frank from the wilderness waiting to engulf him. When he imagined the end— his end— he always thought he'd see the merry-go-round slowing to a stop. But all he can picture as his vision flickers is a third-story window with a vase full of flowers.

What he wouldn't give for a rose. If he held it long enough, Karen would come for him. Always looking out for him. But she's home safe in her apartment and he's states away, bleeding his guts out in the backwoods of Kentucky. Better to push her away and let her live. He's got nothing to offer her except fear and pain.

The bridge is collapsing, and Frank's plunging into the river with no one to stop his fall.

_Bury me, man._

The last thing he sees is a small red light winking over him.


	3. Between the Shadow and Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank and David aren't so different, both watching over their families, ready to rush to their aid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Episodes 6-8.

_I love you as one loves certain obscure things,_

_secretly, between the shadow and the soul._

_—Pablo Neruda_

* * *

Karen's apartment complex is lit up like a Christmas tree. Four rooftops over, a gun propped up on a ledge drinks in the light. Like a kid peeking under the tree for presents, Frank tries to keep out of sight. His shoulder throbs; he can't shake the exhaustion burrowing into his bones. But he's here. Watching. The darkness that cloaks him is kind; it allows him to make sure she's safe. To see that she hasn't tried to signal him.

There are no flowers in her window. There haven't been for a few days now, at least every time he's stopped by. It's not that Frank goes out of his way to walk by her place. He just checks up on her whenever he's out. There's need to bother her. Seems like she's doing fine on her own, and he won't disturb that. Not after the way they left things last time.

He still wakes drenched in terror, Maria's name on his lips. But sometimes he dreams of the reporter, his defender, sitting by his bedside. Karen riding the merry-go-round. Karen dying covered in blood.

He can keep her safe by staying away from her. Right now she's just a silhouette filtered through a gauzy curtain and a fogged-up scope. He's just an idea hidden by the night.

* * *

When Frank finally drags his ass back to camp, he finds Lieberman huddled around his monitor, eyes tracking each movement of his daughter onscreen. David's wife enters the frame, joining her daughter on the couch.

Frank watches the man watch his family, and curses him for his fortune. A living family, a healthy wife and kids. Were he in David's place, he'd run home so fast no bullet could touch him. But he doesn't have a home anymore and he's not bulletproof.

David falls asleep at the computer again. His wife and children are curled up on the sofa, watching a movie. A filmy imitation of a real family.

"Go t'sleep," he murmurs into the keyboard.

Great. Now the guy's sleep talking. Annoying even when he's not awake.

Hoisting Lieberman over his shoulder, Frank hauls him to the cot where he drops him a tad too hard. David stirs, mumbling to himself, "Sarah."

Though it's tempting to tease David, Frank won't mention this in the morning. As he stretches out in the chair next to the cot, he wonders whose name Karen calls out in her sleep.

* * *

The next day, Frank returns to a panicked Lieberman.

"The cameras in my house are down. I can't access the feed to my house right now."

Frank's stomach sinks.

"You need to get over there and check out my family."  _Don't do anything stupid, kid._ "You need to check on my family right now!"

"Alright, alright. Jesus."

* * *

That afternoon, Sarah arranges the flowers in a vase as Frank takes out the trash. The perfect picture of domestic bliss. Except she's a lonely widow and he a killer. They're not meant to be together.

Peonies, the street vendor says, but it's all the same shit to Frank. Pink with long stems and soft petals that feel like the hands of a journalist on his cheek.

A gentleman wouldn't let a lady drink alone. Frank Castle is no gentleman, but he can't refuse a drink. It gives him a chance to check up on the house, the cameras.

They drink rosé at the kitchen table. More pink shit. Sarah fiddles with the stem of her wineglass, her nails, her necklace. She slides the vase along the wooden table, slides her words across the table to collect around Frank's chair.

"Have you ever turned your phone off just so you can stop hoping it'll ring?"

No one calls him but David, yet Frank's mind leaps to flowers in a window. Ink-stained fingertips, a shelf full of books, and sunshine hair. "Who is it that you wanna talk to?"

He'd be a fool not to notice Sarah's attraction to him. He'd be an even bigger fool not to notice her figure and bemused smile, her self-deprecating laugh and delicate fingers. But she's David's wife. And he's… well, he's simple, really: he'll always love Maria, always miss her with every echo of his heartbeat against his ribs. There's no room in his heart for something more. For Sarah and her kids. They belong with David, anyway.

Soon their glasses are empty. They stand, Sarah and Frank, stacking the goblets and lingering over the counter. The cameras must be up again; David's probably watching. Frank needs to get out before the wine affects his judgment. It's some strong shit.

Frank assesses each building he walks into, identifying the potential threats to his life and assets that could save it should the situation arise. He's pegged Lieberman's house as safe. Not many risks here, besides the acrid glares David's boy shoots at him. Frank has determined he's in danger here— for now— because he's examined the layout over cameras and in person. Knows how he'd escape in an ambush. How he'd protect David's kids.

That's why Sarah's words knock him off guard. A swift punch to the gut: "You never talk about your wife."

What is there to say? That he loves Maria so much he'd kill for her? That her face haunts his sleep? "Yeah, she was a special woman. And she's gone now. That's that's not going to change."

"Then what do we do, people like us? I mean, we still have half of our lives to live, right?" She's pleading for him to empathize with her, which he does all too well. "I mean, I see a couple walking down the street, holding hands, and I think to myself, 'Will I ever have that again?' So does that mean I've moved on? And if so, does it make me a bad person?"

If thinking that makes Sarah a bad person, it condemns Frank, too, as his mind drifts to Karen's embrace. "You should allow yourself to feel what you feel."

Sarah hugs him goodbye; he stiffly pats her shoulders, feeling the rush of rosé in the heat of her face burrowed into his chest. He glances around, aware that David could be watching. It'd be just like him to freak out over nothing—

Then her lips are on his, and Frank curses himself for taking his eyes off the target and letting her move in for the kill.

It's been years, but his muscles still remember how to respond, how to betray. Sarah tastes like fruit and flowers. Sweet, but cloyingly so. In this moment— agonizingly stretched out over time, infinitely small and momentarily long— he longs not for Sarah's fresh garden smell, but for the rye on Karen's breath, the desperate clutch of her hands against his back.

When he pulls away from her, Sarah's a flood of apologies and excuses. Frank needs to excuse himself, too, for thinking of Karen in that moment instead of Sarah, instead of his wife.

* * *

When Frank returns to the basement, Lieberman's face falls. They drink well into the night. Lieberman's down first, the lightweight. Can't hold his liquor without taking off his pants. Once he's sure his partner's out cold, Frank carries him to the cot and lays him down.

Frank's tired, so damn tired, but when he tries to lie down and rest, his mind keeps replaying the kiss.

"Do you miss sex?" David asked before passing out.

Hell yes, Frank misses sex. As if he'd ever tell Lieberman. Sometimes he dreams of Maria in her wedding dress, of helping her out of layers of white fluff and kissing every inch of his new wife's body.

He dreams of Karen, too, but feels dirty admitting that to himself. It doesn't mean anything, he reminds himself. Just his worry for her safety spilling over into his subconscious. Yet the thought of not being able to watch her window from the rooftops calls forth a familiar panic in Frank, the same panic that threatens to choke David when his cameras flicker out.

The basement air is suddenly stale; an urge to see the stars washes over Frank. He slips on his pack, pushing past Lieberman mumbling in his sleep ("hands off") and out into the night. The walk to Karen's apartment is automatic, his legs anticipating each turn. It doesn't do much for his spiraling thoughts, but moving is better than sitting, and the wind sobers him up a bit.

The roof of an adjacent apartment is the best spot for Frank to catch a clean view of his target's window. Up he goes, six flights of stairs, before balancing his rifle and tripod against the lip of the roof.

Tonight, her curtains are drawn. The empty windowsill challenges Frank.  _Back again?_  it twinkles.  _She doesn't need you here._

It's a quick draw. Four rings and she picks up. "Hello?"

"You okay?"

"I-I'm fine," she says, and Frank exhales. "Are you— What's going on?"

He realizes it's late. "Just… gotta make sure you're okay."

"It's after midnight."

He can't read her tone. "I… look, Karen, sorry for waking you up."

"I was already up." Indeed, through his scope, Frank sees movement behind the curtains, a tall figure walking into view, bending over. "It's been hard to sleep after Matt's gone."

It's like she's stomped on his heart the way his ribs crack at that statement. Frank's not looking at her window now, he's in a diner sitting across from Karen as she bullshits her way through excuse after excuse why she's not really in love with Red.

"I mean," she continues, "we miss him every day. It's tearing Foggy apart. Losing a friend is so… you know." As her voice crackles through his phone, Frank watches her sweep the curtain to one side and place a pot of roses at the window.

Is she asking him to—?

"I'm going to make some tea. It usually helps me calm down enough to sleep." Here she pauses, peering into the darkness beyond her window. "If you're nearby…"

The implication hangs in the space between her perch and his. Frank knows she can't see him, but he also realizes she knows he's nearby. He hangs up and starts packing up his tripod.

* * *

Her door is unlocked. When Frank tests the knob, she flies into his arms and nearly bowls him back through the door. "I missed you," she whispers so quietly that Frank's terrified he imagined it. So he doesn't say anything, just gives her an uncertain smile and drops his bag at the threshold.

The last time Frank was in this apartment, he kissed Karen. The thought unsettles him, phantom tingles ghosting across his lips. Now he's waiting for the kettle to whistle, leaning against the refrigerator with his arms folded. Karen stands guard over the stove.

She looks away before asking it. "What was it like, losing Maria?"

For the second time today, Frank's gutted, but this time he's not caught off guard. From Karen, he expected as much. And somehow her words sound familiar, well-worn treads of the tongue.

"Like getting my heart ripped out." The words tumble out of his mouth, but he recognizes where they're going. Instead of shutting down, he forges ahead. One breath at a time. Her eyes are locked on his face, his downcast eyes, his moving mouth. He feels her gaze. He's pinned underneath it. And he wants to keep it. So he keeps talking. "Worse than taking a bullet— hell, I'd take a hundred bullets to the head if it meant she and the kids were still alive. Some days, I can almost forget it. It's an ache, but I-I can push past it. Other days, it's so much pain, I can't help but feel like I'm…"

"Fucking crazy?" she finishes, a sweet-sad smile of understanding in her eyes.

"Yeah," he says, and he realizes that she gets it.

"I didn't watch him die, though."

"But you felt it."

"It still doesn't feel real somedays. Foggy and I still meet up for drinks at Josie's a few times a month, but without Matt, it's…"

"Lonely?"

"Empty. There's this hole I don't know how to fill." The kettle shrieks, and Karen jumps.

Frank places a steadying hand on her shoulder. "I got it." As he pours water into two mugs, Karen clears her throat.

"You know, Matt and I weren't together."

The clink of spoon against cup hesitates. "But in the diner…"

"It was just a swirl of ingredients that didn't add up to love. He— I couldn't… We just weren't right together."

He nods, handing her a mug. He grips his own, cautious as that kid peeking under the Christmas tree. "Doesn't mean that it still doesn't hurt."

Karen bites her lip, takes a sip. "Thank you," she says eventually. "For letting me  _feel_."

He longs to touch her, to hold her and to wallow in their aloneness together. But he can't do that to her. Not when he's still dreaming of Maria.

In this moment, he thinks of Sarah who's still clinging to her husband's memory even as she tries to step forward. Like Sarah, Frank's got unfinished business to clear up before can move on— with himself, with Rawlins, with the Maria that lurks in his dreams. So he resists the urge to twist Karen deeper in his mess, instead content to bask in the warmth of her presence.

He gulps down his tea, leaving the mug in the sink. "You've got work in the morning. I should get going."

She bridges the gap growing between them, a sea of rooftops springing up underneath their feet. With her hands against his back, Frank almost forgets the nightmares waiting for him under the sheets in the basement. For now, Karen is safe and nestled perfectly in his arms.

Three flights of stairs, and he's outside her apartment again, this time looking up from the ground. He waits one minute, two, five, but the roses stay in the window. Her light flickers out, but the invitation remains.

Frank fights the urge to whistle on his walk home.


	4. What Falls Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loving Karen scares Frank like nothing else can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Episodes 9-10.

_"I feel my fate in what I cannot fear."_

_—Theodore Roethke_

* * *

Frank Castle's no stranger to fear. He learned to choke it down overseas. Now he eats it in every bite of turkey sandwich, every platter of eggs. Fear doesn't scare him so much as Karen herself does.

She's not afraid. Not like him. She's watched her city crumble, stood by and lost her friends. But Karen's still foolish, still ready for fights she doesn't know how to finish.

As Frank's crouched over the radio with Lieberman, hanging onto every fierce word that marches off Karen's tongue, he worries about who else is listening. When she says his name— "Frank Castle is not a terrorist"— he imagines the shape of her mouth around each syllable.

When the bomber calls in, Frank tenses every muscle in his body, his blood thickening to ice. The labored breathing crackling over the airwaves does nothing to ease Frank's tension. "Why did you say those things about me, Karen?"

She fires back, "Because I despise everything you've done." It's so Karen, the fearless honesty in her reply, the crisp consonants condemning the man on the line.

David glances at Frank, who shifts forward. He listens with the fervor of a sinner at confession. If he doesn't take his eyes off of the radio, maybe he can protect Karen from the repercussions of what she says, prevent the bomber from hearing her responses.

She tries to reason with the caller, asks him who he thinks he's really attacking. But he only sighs, patience fraying audibly. That's when Frank realizes that Karen's in danger and there's nothing he can do to pull her out of this guy's line of fire.

"You're just a pawn like the rest of them," the bomber snarls at her. "The war is just beginning and you are all on the wrong side of it.  _Sic semper tyrannus_."

The line clicks, and the radio goes silent. All Frank can do is try to protect her from the inevitable shit storm heading her way. In order to do that, he must figure out who's coming after her. That Latin phrase… he's heard it before. Recently.

Looking down at his feet, he notices he's pacing, the movement overshadowed by his brain working double time. As he shuffles across the basement, the bomber's identity hits him, a dull thunk to the head.

That blond kid in Curtis' group. That bastard's coming after Karen.

Frank's arms begin moving, punching at air. He can't help snapping at David. "Could you find him?" The please that tumbles out of his mouth after the demand hangs in the air, half-apology, half-plea.

David hems and haws— a cab driver in New York, goes by the name of Lewis? Not much to go on, he says, and Frank knows that. But David has to try. He  _has_  to.

"If there was a maniac coming after Sarah, what would you do?"

"Sarah's my wife. Sarah's my family." David remains infuriatingly calm, focused on tinkering, that stupid headlamp of his bobbing up and down.

Frank drops into the chair opposite David, forcing his partner to look up from his workspace. "I'm only gonna say it once. So is Karen. If something happens to her…" He can't go on. He knows what comes next. Slamming his fist into the table, he waits for David to agree. Frank's not losing Karen, not on his watch.

The Punisher strikes fear into the hearts of New York. A hailstorm of bullets, a stenciled skull, and a thirst for revenge. He's not the type to be easily worried; he's usually the one breeding worry in others. Yet hearing Lewis growl at the only family he's got left does more than ignite a bloodlust so giddy it leaves Frank baying for death: it evokes that stomach-pit-dropping, heart-stopping fear that Frank hasn't felt since losing Maria.

Fear for Karen.

He says he can't keep protecting her from the damage of hanging around him, but this time, she's not in danger because of him. She's been singled out to receive this punishment because of her brash refusal to cower. She prints only truth, fights only for justice, and this is her reward. A death threat from a coward who won't show himself.

* * *

Staking out Lewis' house, Frank sees no signs of life behind the shuttered windows. He can't stop worrying about Karen. When she picks up her phone, the fear settling around his neck eases a bit.

"The hell are you doing, Karen? Going after a guy like this." He didn't mean to start off angry, but how can he hold it back from her? She's going to get herself killed, and it's not just her life at stake. It's also his. "You need to stay put until this gets dealt with."

It takes a moment, but then she realizes what Frank's up to. He's going to deal with this threat himself. She pushes back. She wouldn't be Karen if she didn't challenge him. "That makes you no different than him."

"Hey, Karen, we are plenty different and you know it."

"Two guys don't like the way the world works so they do whatever they like?" Her words push through the phone, batter against Frank's ears. "Do not do this and say that it's for me."

He's so frustrated— at her for egging on the bomber, at himself for making her uncomfortable, at her for not seeing why he has to do this for her. "Yeah," he scoffs. "Just stay put." Before she can protest, he hangs up and continues waiting for his target to show himself.

* * *

She doesn't want anything to do with him right now, not when he's going after the kid. That much is clear to Frank. Still, it doesn't stop him from staking out her place that evening. On a rooftop a few blocks over, same one he called her from last time he was out here, he sets up his rifle and a blanket. Gonna be a long night.

The senator's press conference is tomorrow; Lewis will come after Ori during the interview with Karen. He'll probably leave Karen alone until then. But Frank won't be able to sleep through his nightmares anyway, and this way he can make sure Karen lives through the night so she can make it to her interview.

Fall starts fading to winter, and the frosty New York night eats through Frank's coat. He's tempted to call Karen like he did earlier this week; however, he doesn't know if she'll speak to him after their last call. Not when she suspects what he's planning to do.

A mug of tea and a moment in her arms… Tempting, but Frank has unfinished business. It wouldn't be fair to drag Karen into it. He's been thinking about Maria, the way she's fading in his mind, her mannerisms in his dreams replaced by Karen's.

She's gone, been gone so long that Frank has forgotten what it's like to come home to a wife after a long tour away. He's still fighting a war, yet no one's waiting for him on the other side.

The way the journalist has snuck into his dreams worries Frank. The idea of losing his memories of Maria— all he has left of her— frightens him. How can he honor the woman who died because of him when part of his heart tugs him towards another person? The question isn't easy to answer, and Frank's left with more doubts than answers. But two things crystallize in the freezing air: first, he'll love Maria until his dying breath. Second, somehow Karen's become his family and he's not certain he can't love her, too.

In the morning, he's cold, his fingers stiff, his head foggy, but watching Karen walk out of her apartment warms Frank head to toe.

* * *

Calling Billy is a gamble, but his men can protect Ori and Karen. But Billy won't listen. He keeps trying to convince Frank to leave town or unite for their attack against Lewis. Frank's losing time trying to convince Billy over the on the phone. Always a stubborn bastard, that one. "Look, you just keep your team outta my way."

As Frank begins his ascent to the top floor of the hotel, he sees that Lewis has gone before him. His heart pumps a two-time shotgun beat as he dashes up the stairs, past the fallen bodies. Her name pulses through his veins: Ka-ren, Ka-ren.

When Frank storms the senator's room to find Karen still breathing— on the floor but still alive— he's imbued with a fury he hasn't felt since he gunned down Schoonmaker. Before yanking Karen out of the room, Lewis hits Frank. But a bullet to the chest won't stop Frank, not when Karen's life is still on the line.

When he watches the elevator doors slip shut with Karen at the mercy of Lewis behind them, Frank's worst fear comes to life. And for once, he's powerless to stop it. Wounded, bleeding, caught between Madani and Billy in a standoff Frank's not sure how he wants to end.

But he promised Karen that he'll come for her, and nothing— not Madani, not a little blood, and certainly not Billy fucking Russo— will get in his way.

Stumbling down the stairs, Frank keeps moving on sheer will alone. He's been tapped out since his sleepless night and the firefight upstairs. Yet not moving isn't a choice.

Maria's never going to hurt him again. But Karen's going to stomp on his heart again and again because she's alive. She has wormed her way into his heart and wields the power to destroy Frank Castle in the way a bullet couldn't.

Watching her trying to reason with Lewis in that industrial kitchen chills Frank to the bone. He can't let her die after all he's done to protect her. He'll say anything, do anything to keep Karen alive, even if it means embracing darkness before he can finish off Rawlins. Before he can discover what his after holds.

Before he's knocked off his feet in the stainless-steel veteran-fueled inferno, Frank sees a counterpoint to his nightmares unfold in the flames: a thick oak table piled high with bacon and eggs. A woman at the table, glancing over her shoulder to laugh at the man flipping pancakes at the stove behind her.

The flames roar and the vision is lost.

As Frank tumbles to the floor— as Lewis evaporates into a bad dream— he doesn't need a second glance to know that he was the man with the spatula and Karen, the woman at the table. Whether it's a possibility or a promise, all Frank knows is that he's not scared anymore.

Scared of losing her? Absolutely, with every breath. He doesn't know if that fear will ever disappear. But he's not terrified of moving on the way he was this morning. He doesn't have the luxury of fear in such a fleeting existence. He could go up in flames tomorrow, get killed by the men he's trying so desperately to kill first. If he does, he can't imagine going without letting Karen know that he chooses a fate with her, instead of trying to protect her from afar.

There aren't words right now to express this decision. There's hardly strength to stand. All he can muster is a shared silence, forehead to forehead, in a service elevator clanking painfully to freedom.


	5. A Million Broken Hymns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank runs, but he can't outrun the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Episode 12 and beyond.

Frank's not much of a dancer. Although Maria begged him to learn a waltz for their wedding, he doesn't enjoy moving to the music the way she always did.

Maria— now that woman was a dancer. It had been years since she hung up her pointe shoes by the time she met her husband, but she still intuitively felt the rhythm of a song the way Frank senses his opponents' weak spots. She couldn't help it, the way her shoulders wiggled when she overheard a beat.

He groaned every time she dragged him onto a dance floor at a Marines' ball or friend's wedding, preferring to sit at the bar. Begrudgingly, he'd let her show him the steps. It didn't take long for him to catch on, but he never begged for just one more dance. Secretly, though, he relished seeing Maria's face light up as her favorite songs came on. He could've spent forever with his hands in his pockets, standing on the sidelines watching Maria spin as she brightened the whole room.

Even though he has no love for the sport, Frank can appreciate the discipline dancers possess. It's beautiful, he told his wife when he watched her perform a routine she half-remembered on the floor of their first apartment.  _It's pain,_  she replied.  _Blistered feet and cracked toenails. But it's our job to dance through it, as effortlessly as a walk in the park._  To make beauty out of agony.

Frank's no stranger to pain. He's taken bullets to the chest, arrows to the arm. There's no language he speaks better than the guttural howl of a man caked with an awareness of his mortality. It invades every aspect of his life— turning sleep into terror and anger into vengeance. It's the pain that drives him to kill, drives him to run.

For all the times he's poked fun at his own two left feet, Frank has all the grace that Maria harnessed with music. During firefights, Frank sidesteps bullets nimbly, bending over backwards to deliver the perfect shot. Ricochet and plié don't sound too far off. He's light on his feet, yet firmly grounded and cannot be knocked down. Spinning to catch an enemy off guard, spinning just out of Maria's reach in his dreams.

If the battleground is a dance floor, that makes Frank a fucking prima ballerina. He's fought his way through shit men only imagine in their worst nightmares. His agility and grace make him the ultimate predator as he dances with death.

This time, though, at the mercy of Rawlins, Frank can't keep up with the steps. One moment his hands are tied, chafing against the chair as he's choking on his own blood. The next moment, Maria's palms rest in his gloved hands. His mouth is full of sweet nothings, and the skin on his face doesn't scream under her touch.

Her wedding gown swishes across the dance floor. They're twirling in time to some invisible music Frank can't hear. He wants to keep dancing like this forever, and that's how Frank realizes something's wrong. He's no dancer. He hates this shit. He's hiding from something, but what? If he'd rather be dancing, it must be bad.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, he focuses on the slap of leather against his flayed face rather than the phantom feeling of Maria's fingertips trailing down his stomach. Reality becomes red, and then there's just a spotlight and a girl in a white dress. Frank's vision blurs. The next time he wakes to his cheek splitting open, he remembers his purpose: kill Rawlins.

* * *

Rawlins is dead. Frank's war is almost over.

Once he's stitched back together and slipped an envelope full of cash, Frank understands what Homeland Security is asking him to do: disappear. He's good at that. But he's got one more person to punish.

After smashing Billy's pretty face to pieces, Frank's ready to become Pete Castiglione again. He leaves New York, too bruised to face Karen's questions or worse, her comfort. She deserves the kind of life that he can't offer her. The only gift he can give her now is peace. So he doesn't say goodbye, just disappears into the night.

His beard grows out and his hair grows long, and he misses Karen with every day that passes. Traveling west, he drives till he runs out of gas. At the edge of the state, he finds a Chill and Grill, stops for the ice cream and falls into a job.

It's a little town, Palmyra. Only one bar within city limits. The town's made up of mostly tourists and farmers. A retired vet turned dairy farmer owns the Chill and Grill. Sells three scoops of ice cream for two dollars and calls it a kids' scoop. Frank mans the grill, flipping burgers and counting dollars until the snowpack starts to thaw and the songbirds begin building their nests in the restaurant rafters.

So he keeps pushing on. Massachusetts, Pennsylvania— he even tries Connecticut, but the whole damn state is made up of bed and breakfasts. Small towns and lonely streets. Frank longs for the bustle of New York, the lights and noise. All this time alone with his thoughts is dangerous. Karen this, Karen that. His pulse skips at the sound of her name, but when he looks over his shoulder, it's never her.

* * *

In the summer, Frank returns to New York City. Finds himself a studio apartment and uses his Homeland Security payout to fund the deposit. He gets himself a job working at a new construction site. It pays cash and no one worries too much if he comes into work early or stays late. A couple of his coworkers are fine, not too talkative. Sometimes they eat lunch onsite together, but when they invite Frank for drinks, but he always turns them down.

Once he's got a place to stay, Frank lets David know he's back in town. When the analyst comes home from work one afternoon, he finds Castle sitting on his doorstep.

"You can't disappear on me like that!" David says, but his voice is all relief and no scolding.

Frank grins. "Asshole."

The Liebermans invite him over for dinner. After skipping out on Thanksgiving, Frank can't refuse. He scarfs down the enchiladas like he hasn't tasted home cooking all year.

"Never let this guy cook for you," Frank warns Sarah, shooting a pointed look at David.

She just laughs and says, "I know," before heading to the kitchen, empty plates in hand.

Soaking up the whole homey atmosphere hurts Frank in the sweetest way possible. Two kids on the couch, leftovers on the table— everything he pictured for himself to pull him through the war. They settle in for an after-dinner movie, and for a minute, Frank pretends all this is his.

When he heads to the kitchen to wash out his wineglass, Frank spies a moment meant just for two. David's got his hands in Sarah's curls, the two of them rocking in the kitchen to a song Frank can't hear.

It's a knife to his lungs, watching the Liebermans dance. He should be happy for David— after years of hiding, he finally got his family back. But all Frank feels at the moment is a pang in his chest that smells suspiciously like whiskey and tea, newsprint and sunshine.


	6. Standing Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Frank's disappeared again, Karen tries to move on, but finds it doesn't come so easily.

One Saturday morning, after burning her eggs and running out of milk for cereal, Karen bundles up against the January cold and ventures into the snow for breakfast. It's only a few blocks to the corner mart for milk, but Karen's fed up with her kitchen and wants nothing more than a piping hot meal.

A mile from her apartment, she finds a diner tucked away from the city. The interior is shabby, but its heater is roaring. She snags a corner booth as far from the door as possible and flags down the server for coffee.

The woman that catches her signal ambles over, tugging at her yellow dress. "You new to the neighborhood?"

"No, I, um, I live here."

"Haven't seen you before." Her thick Brooklyn accent and Hush Puppies remind Karen of Vermont. Fagan Corners had one breakfast cafe, staffed by a grumpy old New Yorker wearing geriatric shoes and serving burned bacon.

"I'm…"  _I'm missing Frank something awful today_. "I eat in a lot."

The waitress nods approvingly. "Need a menu?"

"Could I get scrambled eggs?"

"Sausage? Toast?"

"Sourdough, please."

Then the waitress is shouting the order over the counter and Karen's left to her coffee. She examines the diner: nothing special. Red and white striped booths, blinds streaked with grease, windows overlooking a parking lot rimmed in barbed wire.

But there's something homey about the restaurant, which helps Karen overlook the soggy toast. She draws out her last cup of coffee, adding cream and sugar and stirring until it sloshes onto the table. Once it's finally gone, she bundles up and treks back to an empty apartment.

* * *

Next Saturday, there's milk in her fridge, but Karen decides she doesn't want to wash dishes. So she tugs on stockings and a skirt, and makes her way to the back booth of the diner. This time, the waitress almost smiles when she brings the coffee pot to Karen's table. An orange slice shows up on Karen's plate among the eggs and toast, a sliver of the sun winking at her.

A folded newspaper lays abandoned on the Formica tabletop. Karen leafs through it as she spreads jam on her toast. The byline is hers. Seeing her own name in print still sends shivers up her spine. The words feel removed, as if they weren't painstakingly-placed characters she labored over for hours.

"Crime is up," the waitress observes as she catches the headline on her way to refill Karen's mug. "Where's that red devil when you need him?"

It's just small talk, yet Karen's breath catches at the remark. "Haven't you heard?" she says, acid burning through her tongue. "He's dead."

* * *

"Damn hipsters," the waitress mutters conspiratorially to Karen as a man in an orange beanie and cardigan walks into the cafe the following week.

Admitting it to herself makes her actions that much more pathetic, but Karen looks up whenever the bell jangles on the front door to scan every person who enters the diner. Sometimes she sees hulking men with closely-cropped hair, broken noses, and blood in their eyes. Other times, she spots guys with unruly beards and shaggy hair, desperation written into the lines of their cheeks. But they're never Frank. She hates herself for looking, yet she can't stop if she tries.

"They're taking over the neighborhood. Driving rent prices up." The coffeepot smacks the table as the waitress pushes back the curls falling in her face. "You want more coffee?"

* * *

January melts into February. Saturday breakfast at the diner becomes Karen's tradition. There, she can curl up with the news or a book or nothing but her plate of eggs. The waitress stops by her table, more often to make conversation than refill the coffee. Her rumpled white apron and snarky asides become part of Karen's meals. Sometimes she sneaks Karen a cinnamon roll on the house.

One morning, Karen orders pancakes and the waitress pauses a moment, her routine thrown out of whack. "You telling me you aren't getting eggs today?" the waitress asks. Then she introduces herself. "Call me Sandra."

That's when Karen knows she's a regular. The idea makes her glow. She's got something that's all hers, untainted by Frank and Matt, Foggy and Marci. It's a place to breathe, to take stock of herself before the weekend hurtles on at a breakneck pace.

The man in the orange beanie comes occasionally, too. Karen spots him at the counter some mornings when she walks to her corner booth. Sometimes he smiles. She settles for a nod in return.

"Hipster's looking at you," Sandra informs her as she brings an extra pat of butter for Karen's toast.

It's stupid, the way Karen's heart leaps at the observation. She knows Frank isn't here, no matter how much she wishes he was. Sure enough, as she peeks up from her food, the beanie bobs in her direction with a wave.

Sandra raises her eyebrows as she watches the whole spectacle. "I can pour some coffee in his lap if he needs to cool off."

Karen laughs. "No, he's… it's fine."

Valentine's Day falls on a Wednesday this year. To prepare herself for surviving the day at work— all her coworkers receiving flowers or leaving early to go out with their partners— Karen treats herself to breakfast at the cafe. Sandra almost cracks a grin when she sees Karen walk in.

"Do you have anyone special to spend the day with?" Karen asks.

Her face goes soft. "I sure do, missy." Suddenly Karen wonders if the lines around her server's eyes aren't just from squinting at menus, but from laughter.

Today, Karen's pancakes are heart-shaped and sprinkled with chocolate chips. Sandra winks as she brings them by. Karen still can't shake the feeling of emptiness.

* * *

The ceiling fans crank away lazily even though there's still a chill in the new spring air. Karen keeps her coat on when she walks into the cafe, making a beeline for her booth. Pulling open the newspaper, she waits for Sandra to approach her.

A soft hello interrupts her reading. She looks up to see Beanie Man standing over her, mug in hand. "Mind if I join you?"

For a second, Karen forgets how to reply. "Sure," she croaks. Just like that, the man slides onto the opposite bench. He has the decency to let her adjust to the interruption instead of jumping into a discussion. As he mixes two packets of sugar into his tea, Karen folds up the newspaper and scrambles for something to say.

"You're, um, you're here a lot." What a stupid thing to start with! It isn't like she's been watching him from across the diner. Often she only notices him once Sandra points him out.

"So are you." He smiles easily. His nose is straight. His eyes are light. He's not the man Karen's been dreaming of having breakfast with, but he seems kind. What could one meal hurt?

They're trying out conversation cautiously, until he picks up the newspaper she was reading and points out the headline: "Ori introduces gun control bill."

"Do you know anything about this?" he asks her.

"Yes!" Karen can't help herself— she's full of thoughts she couldn't cram onto the page. "I actually wrote that piece."

His eyebrows nearly reach his beanie. "Tell me the story behind the story."

Sandra has to clear her throat three times before the pair notices her standing over them, pen and pad in hand. She shoots Karen a look,  _I told you so_  dripping from her gaze.

* * *

Just as quickly as breakfast at the diner became part of Karen's routine, so does eating with Will. Some mornings he's waiting for her in their booth, the latest edition of the  _Bulletin_  sprawled before him. They dissect the articles, editorials, and even the comics. Laughter and coffee steam wafts up to the yellow lamps dangling above their corner.

Eventually, they exchange numbers. Karen messages Will when she's running late and wants him to put in her order for breakfast. Will sends Karen pictures of her articles in the wild ("Spotted: man in Central Park reading Karen Page's latest spread"). His excitement about her success is infectious.

A long sticky July afternoon at the press drags into night. When Karen gets home, she rolls into bed, too tired to cook. Dozing off, she startles at the buzz of a new text.

Maybe she should've seen the invitation coming. The way Will looks at her when she explains her latest project, the way she laughs a little too hard at his puns. She thought their flirtation would start and end over brunch. Now Will's crossed an invisible line dividing their booth, and Karen doesn't know whether to smile or frown.

One date. It won't change everything they've developed over the last season. So Karen agrees to dinner next Friday night.

* * *

A couple drinks, and dinner starts to feel like something more than breakfast has ever been. After starting so many days together, Will and Karen are ready to end one together.

He hails a cab outside of the restaurant. They ride to Karen's apartment in uncharacteristic silence. Their skin tingles as they touch each other furtively, lit only by brake lights and a wild hope blossoming in the dark.

When they arrive at her apartment, Karen does not look at her window. She doesn't want to see the roses tonight. Instead, she leads Will into her bedroom. For once, Karen doesn't have to fight not to be alone.

Her dress pools at the foot of her bed; Will's pants sink into the silk soon after. His belt clinks as it hits the floor. The sound jars her: the sound of a bullet casing falling, an elevator grinding to a halt.

Suddenly she's all apologies and fluttering hands. "I can't do this," she murmurs into her pillow, into Will's neck. "I can't do this."

He leaves without protest. Karen dreams of a different man sitting across from her in a diner so long ago.

* * *

In August, Will texts her to let her know that he's heading out of town for a wedding and won't be at the diner on Saturday. Karen tries not to read too much into it, but she keeps replaying their failed date as she tries to fall sleep. When she wakes up the next morning, she almost rolls back over and falls asleep. Yet the idea of cooking on a Saturday seems so foreign to her that she pulls on a skirt and treks to the diner.

In her understated fashion, Sandra doesn't say anything when Karen shows up alone, but her whole manner buzzes with questions. "He's just out of town," Karen says when the waitress shows up with a cinnamon roll.

"None of my business, sweetheart," Sandra murmurs, but she plunks the pastry onto the table and squeezes herself onto Will's bench. "You know, we don't see hipsters much around these parts."

Her mouth full of cinnamon roll, Karen chews out a reply: "Will's not—"

"There was this one guy. Full beard, tight jeans, the works. Always dressed in black. Used to sit at your booth."

Karen glances at the red vinyl pressed against her thighs. The cinnamon dough melts into her tongue.

"He only came a couple times, but it's hard to forget him. Built like a mountain, that guy was. Surprised his ass fit in those jeans."

Conjuring a picture of Frank is easier than it should be for Karen. He's been gone since November, but he still visits her mind with alarming frequency. Bending over her sink to wash out his mug, examining her bookshelf, climbing out of the elevator and out of her life.

"He always grabbed a newspaper from the counter. Never took the time to read it, just flipped through it. Asked him what he was looking for once."

Karen should ignore the conversation, keep working on the cinnamon roll instead of reading into Sandra's measured tone. But Karen can't help asking questions. "What did he say?"

"Said he was looking for someone."

Goosebumps prickle underneath Karen's blouse. "I-I don't—"

When Sandra shakes her head, Karen only sees the row of white buttons down the yellow dress shaking in sync. "You know what I'm talking about."

Karen does. She knows that every time the diner door jingles, she scans the faces for Frank. Every time she sits across from Will, she pretends his voice is rougher, his nose crooked. It's not fair to do to him, but she can't help herself. So she finishes the cinnamon roll, leaves a twenty on the table, and buys a gallon of milk for cereal.


End file.
